


Hole Hearted

by awesomonster



Series: Hole Hearted [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Book Arguments, Coconut Abuse, F/M, Food Mistakes, Gen, Like With Pipes, Literal Plumbing Troubles, Plumbing Troubles, no not that kind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-14 17:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5751091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awesomonster/pseuds/awesomonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A grumpy bookstore owner has a plumbing problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sink Hole

"Hm. Hm hm. Yeeep. We're gonna have to see if we can go through the ceiling of the apartment below, I'm afraid," The plumber apologized, not sounding all that apologetic, "It's the only way I can get to the pipes I need." He flipped through the papers on his clipboard for the forty third time since showing up. The little, elderly Orlesian landlord, at least, had the good grace to give him an annoyed look before shrugging at Solas.

"I suspect the owner of the apartment below may have some issue with that," Solas said, trying his best to show how deeply irritated he was feeling at the situation without outright saying it.

But the landlord was shaking his head and waving his hands. "We are lucky, you have a good neighbor," he insisted in his heavily accented Common, "She will understand. Come, come."

Solas would have preferred to wait in his own apartment while they took their work downstairs, but the landlord was very insistent on him coming along and he couldn't think up a real reason not to. The landlord led the way out of the apartment, down the outdoor stairs, and to the door of the apartment directly below, where he knocked heavily, the sound sending a shaking echo down the empty hall. There was a pause, then a small jangle from the peephole, then a louder clunking clatter as the lock was opened.

The landlord greeted the young elven woman behind the door with an old familiarity and a softness he'd never seen from him before. "So sorry to bother you like this, Demoiselle Melowyn," he began, dipping his head in greeting, "There's a problem with the plumbing in the apartment above you and we may need to do some work from your place."

The woman looked from the landlord to the handyman to Solas, then back to the landlord, giving him a cheery smile. "Yes, of course, please come in!" She backed out of the way, holding the door open for them. "I hope it's nothing too serious?" Her voice was soft and gentle, with a somewhat husky note to her Dalish lilt.

As he walked past her, the handyman said, "I might have to replace all the bathroom pipes, I'm afraid." His eyes went to her ceiling and he flipped through the paperwork on his clipboard a forty fourth time. At this point, Solas suspected he was just doing it to look busy and important rather than for any useful reason. "And to do that, I'll have to tear out this whole section of your ceiling."

Before she could say anything about that, the landlord insisted a little too quickly, "But do not worry, Demoiselle, we will not inconvenience you more than we need to!"

The woman patted the landlord's wrinkled hands and smiled again, reassuring him, "Of course, Thibault, do what you must."

Once the landlord joined the repairman headed inside and began discussing the work to be done, the woman turned her attention to Solas, who had been standing just outside the door in silence, still unsure why he'd been dragged along.

"I'm sorry about all of this," she said kindly, to which he gave a confused look.

"Of all the people involved, you should not be the one apologizing."

"That doesn't mean I can't be sorry about it. You seem very annoyed!" A gentle hand was placed on his arm and she gave him a welcoming smile. "Come on now, I imagine they'll be at it for a while."

Her apartment was smaller than his by almost half, and as a result everything was very close, though it was comfortable rather than cramped. A large patchwork sofa dominated the main room. The walls were decorated with large, framed maps of Thedas that were clearly very old, prints of various colorful paintings, some actual paintings, and bright scarves made of rich fabrics, all randomly placed as closely as she could manage. There was a kitchen only separated from the main room by an island where two wooden barstools with dusty pink velvet cushions, worn with frequent use, stood.

The young woman gestured at one of the barstools. "Please, sit. Make yourself comfortable." She busied herself in the kitchen. "Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?"

As he eased himself onto the stool, he tried his best not to look repulsed at the offer. "No, thank you. I am... not a fan of either, I'm afraid."

"Then what ARE you a fan of?" she asked with a pleasant laugh. Before he could answer, an idea must've popped into her head. "Oh! I know!" She spun on her heel and opened her refrigerator, pulling out a fancy looking, dusty pink box tied with a gold ribbon, an Orlesian label in curly golden script across the lid. She then slid it onto counter in front of him with a wide grin, unable to contain her excitement. "I was saving these for a special occasion!"

"This counts as a special occasion?" He threw a glance over at the debating landlord and plumber, who was saying something about a "full overhaul".

"Of course!" As he watched them arguing over costs, she pulled the ribbon loose and opened the box, revealing a selection of colorful petits fours. "It's always nice to meet a neighbor, even if the circumstances aren't ideal!" She waggled the box at him to select a cake until he gave in and chose a pale green one with a little lavender-colored rose on the top. She picked a white one with a rose petal, then raised it as if it were a glass of champagne and gave him a glowing smile. "To new friends!"

He couldn't help but chuckle. "To new friends, then," he repeated with a nod and they popped the small cakes in their mouths simultaneously. The fondant of his was flavored with pistachios, delicately salty to balance the sweetness of the rest, and the cream inside was flavored with something light and floral, violets perhaps? The cake was a simple but perfect sponge. He did love petits fours, and this was among the best he'd experienced.

As they were reveling in their cakes, the plumber and landlord made their way over to them, the former looking rather pleased with himself. "Gonna have to replace all the piping, I'm afraid," he said a bit too cheerfully, "The damage was worse than I expected. Old pipes, y'know. It'll take three months at least. Gonna have to tear the whole flooring out."

Solas and the young woman exchanged a look, though his face was angry where her's was concerned and sympathetic. She pushed the box towards him again. "Have another cake, I think you need it."

\--

In the next few days, the plumber and his men were in and out of both apartments, mostly taking measurements and estimating the best way to get to the damaged pipes while doing the least amount of damage to the building. While the work took place, Solas and Melowyn spent their free time in whichever apartment wasn't being worked in at the time. What started out as a situation of necessity became surprisingly enjoyable as they got to know each other. They'd found they had quite a lot of interests in common, most importantly a love of history and old books, and they’d quickly settled into an easy friendship. 

On her first visit to his apartment, she ignored the relative spaciousness compared to her own and the carefully curated, antique furnishings for the cases that housed his personal rare book collection. He felt a second hand thrill from watching her flit between the cases, marveling at their contents.

"Are those the first printings of the journals of Ethena Ghilain?!" she'd gasped almost immediately, her face so close to the glass of the case they were in as to be almost touching. "Those must be over two hundred years old!" When she'd turned her face to him to gape, her eyes were wide and shining and full of genuine awe.

He couldn't help his smug satisfaction, nor the small twinges of admiration and surprise at the fact that she'd recognized them, as he replied, "Two hundred and forty seven, to be exact." And then, not missing an opportunity to show off what he was most proud of, he gently guided her to another case. "This is the best of my collection, however."

He hadn't thought it possible for her eyes to grow any wider, but it turned out he was wrong.

"That's the Glenmadrigion!" she breathed, too amazed to exclaim properly. "The first translation! I've seen pictures of it, that's it!"

He also hadn't thought he could feel any more smug about it than he already did.

"I knew it was bought by a private collector, but that it's been right above me this whole time!" She spun in place, grabbing one of his arms in unbridled excitement. "Solas! I can't believe it's the Glenmadrigion! You own the earliest known collection of Dalish tales!" If he didn't think it would spoil the moment, he would've corrected her on her description of the book. That they were Dalish tales was a rather lazy, modern assumption and one he was willing to momentarily understand, given her background.

While he was lost in his snobby thoughts, he barely heard her say, as she turned back to gape more at the book, "I have a friend who would just DIE to see this! He's going to just HATE you!"

\--

A week later, where his kitchen sink once was, now there was a hole. The drywall behind it had been stripped and the absurdly rusted pipes within removed. And though the workers had moved most of her furniture out of the way, a small flood had all but destroyed Melowyn's patchwork couch.

"You should insist they pay for the damages," he said through the hole as he prepared dinner. An odd side effect of the hole in the floor was the sudden closeness they had with each other. Though she was often the instigator of these conversations, he always found himself gladly swept into them.

Below him, he got occasional glances at the top of her head as she mopped up the last remnants of the flooding, black hair gleaming whenever she was under his fluorescent blue kitchen light. "I doubt the contractors would pay for it," she sighed, stopping in her tracks to look up at him. Her soft voice was even quieter than normal. "And if I ask Thibault to pay for it, he'll only compensate by raising our rents even more." Then she looked off in the distance at nothing in particular, a small, sly smile playing on her lips. "Besides, I'm sure someone will be by with a replacement couch soon enough."

He arched a brow, his expression a mix of confusion and intrigue. "Excuse me?"

"Whenever I need something like that, someone always seems to have a spare they're very eager to give me." She shrugged loosely, leaning forward against the mop handle and angling her gaze back up at him, the sly smile never leaving her lips. "I haven't bought anything in years because people just give me things."

If he hadn't been stirring risotto, he probably would have stopped what he was doing to quiz her more on the validity of this claim. In the very short time he'd known her, he'd quickly discovered that she was prone to telling him bizarre lies about herself in order to make him laugh. The worst part was that it worked remarkably well, every single time.

Just before this, he had asked her what she did for a living and she'd told him she was a professional ballet dancer, the first Dalish to become one. Her subsequent example dance seemed convincing enough (though he admittedly couldn't see much of it through the hole), but it seemed as unlikely as the other things she'd told him that were outright lies. When he contested this claim, she seemed pleased. "It's the truth!" She'd laughed, "It's how I met Thibault! He wasn't always a landlord, you know."

Once his risotto was done cooking, he removed it from the heat and leaned over the hole. "If you are finished cleaning, would you like to come up and have dinner?" This had become part of the new ritual as well. The first few days of work had lasted well into the evening and they began trading off cooking duties out of necessity, and even though the plumbing work was usually done in the afternoon now, the habit remained.

 

\--

"I have noticed Monsieur Descombes calls you 'Demoiselle', rather than mademoiselle," he asked as he poured the wine she'd brought - a nice chardonnay that paired well with the crab risotto he'd made, "You are the only one I have ever heard him use such an archaic title for. He is old, but he is not THAT old."

"Ah," Melowyn laughed, a playfully bemused look coming to her face, "It's something of a pun, I suppose. I met Thibault long before I lived here, when I was first starting out as a dancer. Ten? Eleven years ago, now! He was still a master, then." She leaned in and interjected her story in conspiratorial whisper, "In his day he was quite the Danseur noble, you know." Once she resumed her original position, she continued, "The first production I had a significant role in was La Demoiselle Verte." Solas knew of the ballet, a Romantic one about a small boy who rescues a green damselfly from drowning. The damselfly turns out to be the Princess of the Damselflies and returns to him when he's an adult to whisk him away as her groom.

There was a soft sigh, then, as she looked off, wistful in her remembering, "Thibault was this intimidating beast of a ballet master and everyone was sort of...afraid of him, but for whatever reason he decided to take me under his wing. Perhaps because I was so clearly out of my element." She leveled her gaze at him with a small shake of her head. "Elven dancers are often prized in ballet for their stature and build, but I was the only Dalish one anyone had ever known, and a thousand miles away from my clan at that! None of the other dancers were very welcoming of me outside of their professional responsibility, and I suppose he didn't approve. He took the time to talk to me and was so kind and friendly to me, while remaining this harsh maitré to everyone else!" A small laugh. "He began calling me his 'petite demoiselle verte' loudly and often and especially around all the other dancers."

Her eyes lit up at this part of the story and leaned forward again. "A few days later, I asked him why he called me that. It wasn't my role and it was particularly upsetting to the dancer whose role it WAS. Can you guess why he did?" She wore a broad grin now, her face full of delight, clearly enjoying the idea that she had to include him in her story in this way.

He could certainly see how she would remind someone of a damselfly, delicate and graceful as her every movement was, as vibrant and entrancing as the little insects tended to be. And though he was entirely willing to admit he'd noticed those qualities in her, he didn't get the feeling she would be so eager for him to praise her in such a coerced way. If not that, there was only one clear solution. It was so charming, he couldn't help but smile.

"He turned the thing that marked you as 'other' into a badge of pride," he finally said. It was obviously the right answer. Her smile somehow grew even broader and she grasped his hand with both of hers, bouncing in her seat.

"Yes! Exactly! He told me 'your tattoos, they are as the wings of la demoiselle verte'." She had put on a likeness of the landlord's accent for this. It wasn't half bad. "And then he shouted to everyone about how they should look to me as inspiration, because I was 'exactly as the princess should be portrayed'." She did the accent again, then laughed once more, a fuller, more present laugh than her last. "It was flattery at best - I was still very much a young dancer! - but it was very kind of him. His support earned a lot of envy I don't think I was ready for, but it also gained me people who wanted to be on his good side enough to give me a chance."

Suddenly there was a knock on the outside door of the apartment below. The two of them exchanged a look before Melowyn stood and went to the window that overlooked her door. Whoever it was had elicited a sudden, bright laugh from her and caused her to rush from the apartment to greet whomever it was with a quick, "I'll be back in a minute!"

After a moment of confusion, his curiosity got the better of him and he rose, making his way to the window. Inexplicably, at the front door, there was a couch. Dusty sage green velveteen, somewhat worn in places but in otherwise nice condition. A man stood next to it, talking cheerfully to Melowyn with a broad grin. He was shorter than her by at least half a foot - likely a dwarf then - with red hair and a garish blue satin shirt unbuttoned to show even redder chest hair. He made a sweeping gesture to the couch, then patted it. He then made a gesture over his shoulder to the truck that clearly had brought. He could only just see the driver, who seemed to be a Qunari with massive horns. In the truck bed, there was a young man who seemed to be talking to the driver. She nodded emphatically to whatever he said, then gestured to the door before heading back inside. Moments later, she came bursting through Solas's door, breathless and thrilled.

"Guess what!" she declared with a grin, but didn't wait for him to guess, "I TOLD you, I never have to buy anything!"

He had to laugh. "So you did," he acquiesced with a gracious nod, "I should not have underestimated you."

"Now come help us," She laughed, tugging on his arm, "Bull and Krem could probably do it themselves but we can't let them have an opportunity to show off, now can we?" Before he could ask why not, she was dragging him out the door and he found he had no interest in fighting against it.


	2. Cooking the Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two grown men have an argument about books. Also, a walking, talking food disaster makes a food mistake.

Technology was a wonderful thing. Before the internet, before auction websites specifically, tracking down a book meant knowing someone who knew someone who owned it. Or making phone calls to other bookstores that potentially had it. Or having the good fortune to simply stumble upon it. Now if he or a client wanted a book, Solas could look for it in multiple places without ever leaving the comfort of his home.

He’d become something of an expert at winning auctions. He’d frequented many live auctions in the past, and while they were thrilling, he never had much luck. Online, however, he had more control over where and when he could look. He could set up alerts on his two favorite sites, TBEmporium.com (“powered by urchins since time immemorial”) and WonThedas.com (“the website where you win the wonders!”), and get emails any time a book he was looking for became available.

There was one book in particular that he’d been looking for for years now, a centuries old treatise on the Elvhen pantheon that, while inherently incorrect by its very nature, was far more interesting and accurate than anything even modern scholars had come up with. He’d read portions of it over the years, handwritten translations from the original Orlesian that he’d received from other scholars, but had never seen an original copy in person.

And now, it seemed, a store somewhere in Val Chevin had a copy for sale. He knew the reserve would be high for a book of such age and rarity, but he’d had $3000 set aside specifically for Les Créateurs et les Lords. The auction would be over late that night and had yet to have a single bid on it. Finally, after so many years of searching, the book would be his. He set his maximum bid and leaned back in his chair, feeling particularly pleased with himself.

\--

“I’ve come to cook!” Melowyn declared as she entered his apartment later that evening, arms ladened with groceries and a winsome smile on her face. He attempted to disguise his horror and was fairly certain he failed. The last time it was her turn to cook, she’d set her oven on fire. He wasn’t entirely sure HOW she had set her oven on fire, beyond knowing that she’d been trying to toast coconut, but he had come into her apartment to find her calmly contemplating how to put out the surprisingly large blaze. She’d called him brilliant when he thought to hit it with the sink’s sprayer until it died down.

They’d ordered pizza that day.

Now, it seemed, she had it in her head to cook coq au vin. That he didn’t have a sink to save them should she set something alight again was a worry he tried his best to suppress.

“Perhaps I should assist you,” he offered gently, trying not to sound as concerned as he felt, “I’ve some experience with this dish. I would not mind.”

“Oh, but that’s not fair to you, is it?” She placed her bags of groceries on his counter and began emptying them. “You cooked last night and you always do such fancy dishes! I wouldn’t want to do any less!” He looked through the things she had bought for it and silently judged how dangerous each ingredient could potentially be.

“It is my pleasure, really,” he said carefully as he examined the wine and the brandy she’d chosen. After a thought, he added, “Besides, I would rather not have to end up ordering pizza again.”

It took Melowyn a moment to realize he was teasing her, but as soon as it clicked, she was thoroughly delighted. “How dare you!” she exclaimed in a peal of laughter, “We wouldn’t order pizza again, I have an entire array of places I order from!”

As he began preparing the chicken, she started chopping the vegetables, apparently conceding for the moment. “I would rather not rush to experience all of them, if I can help it,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips, “Especially not at the expense of my oven.”

“My oven is FINE, Solas,” she attempted to sound offended, “Ovens are meant to have fire in them!”

“Ovens are meant to handle heat, not open flame,” he countered, “Now, please hand me that bacon.” She did, and watched with great interest as he blanched it. And then she watched him braise the onions and brown the chicken (applauding enthusiastically when he flamed it with the brandy), eventually forgetting that she was the one who was meant to be cooking.

As he was preparing the ingredients to simmer in the wine, she asked, “What sort of wine pairs well with this?”

“Ah,” he said with a nod, straightening his back, “Actually, I have just the thing. I will be back in a moment.” He started to walk off, but paused to add, “Don’t touch anything.”

He made his way through the apartment, into the back office. There, he began scanning a rack with several dusty bottles of wine until he found the specific bottle of Merlot he wanted.

He couldn’t possibly have been gone more than a few minutes.

As he approached the doorway of the office, he noted the strange orange glow coming from the room beyond. There were a number of things it could have been, certainly. It could’ve been the Magic Hour, where everything took on a golden hue. Perhaps a rage demon found its way from the Fade into his apartment. Or maybe it was the end of the world. But he knew better.

Just through the doorway, he aimed his gaze directly at a sheepish-looking Melowyn. The orange of the two foot high pan fire beside her brought out the green in her eyes.

“I did NOTHING,” she insisted as soon as she saw him, “It caught fire and I made the decision to wait until you came back.”

He crossed the room in three strides and, in a swift motion, dropped the lid onto the pan, snuffing out the fire. With a quick flick of his hand, he snapped the burner off. They stood there in pregnant silence. “Are you harmed?” he finally asked, his voice terse.

He’d never seen her so somber before, and he immediately felt regretful about how annoyed he was. “I was afraid of making it worse,” she said softly, not quite looking at him, “I didn’t want to set your whole kitchen on fire.”

“I appreciate that,” he replied, “It is in enough of a state as it is.” He looked her over and asked again, much more gently this time, “You’re not harmed?”

She helpfully held her hands out to him. “I’m fine, see?” He set the bottle of Merlot on the counter and took her by the wrists, flipping her hands back and forth until he was satisfied she hadn’t been burned. With a surprising reluctance, he let her go.

And then, as if as an afterthought, he lifted the pan lid and took a peek inside.“The same cannot be said for this chicken, I’m afraid…” They exchanged a look of disappointment, though his was far more subtle than her apologetic pout.

The Rivani restaurant they ordered from was remarkably good.

\--

In the morning, he sat himself at his computer, eager to check on the auction that had ended several hours before. The possibility that anyone had outbid him was far from his mind until he saw the winning bid, from one “AntiQuarinusBooks”, for $3001.

The Tevinter had sniped him. Again. This time, Solas was certain, it was a personal slight. Dorian knew he’d been looking for Creators and Lords for years and knew exactly how much he’d put aside to pay for it.

This would not stand. Everything else he had to do that day became secondary to dealing with this issue in person.

\--

Solas marched through the door of Dorian's tacky establishment in a huff. "You have gone too far this time, Pavus," he grumbled as he came around the middle wall, preparing to unleash the entire catalogue of the Tevinter’s offenses. "What you have done is even more underhanded than I had given you cred-" The words died on his tongue when he saw not Dorian, but the freckled face of his downstairs neighbor behind the counter. A freckled face filled with amused surprise. On the counter in front of her was a very old tome that she had clearly been reading before he came in.

"You're so ANGRY," she said with delight and awe. "What did he do?"

Solas straightened his back and cleared his throat in an attempt to regain some of his composure. "Is Mister Pavus in?"

She nodded, the look of delight still on her face. "He's in the way back looking for some books for a client. He should be back up here soon, if you'd like to wait." She leaned forward and reached across the counter to place a hand on his arm. "Please wait. I want to be here to see you yell at him."

He hesitated, not sure if complaining about the auction was worth waiting for, especially since the heat of the moment had passed, but found he had no interest in leaving now. He told himself that it was because he was especially annoyed about the whole situation. "Yes, alright," he said with a short nod. She leaned back into her seat and they fell into an abrupt silence. To fill the space left between them, he asked, "So, how is it that you know Mister Pavus?"

"Dorian?" She waved her hand dismissively. "He's my beautiful, precious son. I am very proud of him." She said it with such cheerful, easy confidence that he had to pause for a second. He knew Dorian was from Tevinter and she certainly didn't seem anywhere near old enough, though he was in no position to assume someone's age based on appearance.

As he was debating how much to believe her, Dorian's voice came quick and sharp and annoyed from the stockroom behind them, "Stop telling people I'm your son!"

Melowyn pouted, jutting her bottom lip out in an overly exaggerated fashion. "Fine, fine. He's not my son. He's my brother." She gave Solas a playful grin and a wink. It took everything in him not to laugh. He was still irritated about having that auction sniped out from under him and it wouldn't do to laugh. Especially not so deep within enemy territory.

Dorian came out of the back room, arms full of books and face full of scowl. When he saw that it was Solas she was talking to, his scowl deepened. "Oh, for the- Fantastic. Of all the people you could've picked to spread these ridiculous lies to, it had to be him." He jutted his chin as irritated punctuation.

She looked between the two men, a genuine "O" of surprise on her face as comprehension dawned. "Wait, Solas is your 'arch-nemesis'? The one you're always going on about as if he were a supervillain?" Her surprise melted back into a broad, delighted grin and her hands found their way to her cheeks as she looked between the two men, utterly thrilled at how stupid this all was.

There was an uncomfortable, embarrassed laugh that said 'yes I've definitely said those things'. "I don't- I don't 'go on'," he scoffed, mustering up some offense as he leveled his gaze at Solas. "He barely ever even registers on my- Wait. How do YOU know him?" He eyed her with suspicion.

Her laugh was bright as she turned her attention back to her book. "I've been a double agent this whole time," she said, forcing her voice to sound bored and bland as she lightly paged through the book as if she were really reading it. If she was trying to sound like a double agent, she was failing tremendously at it. "My mission was to drive you mad so he'd be the only snobby bookseller left in the city." Dorian set his pile of books down on the counter next to her and gave her a tired look. She responded with an unphased smirk. "He's my upstairs neighbor. The one I talk to through the hole."

"I am not snobby," Solas said, like a snob in denial would.

"You're both snobs," Melowyn said diplomatically, putting a hand on each of theirs. "But I wouldn't have either of you any other way."

The two men were mollified for the moment and they would likely have walked away from this encounter calm, if not for-

"Oh, before you leave, Solas, a little birdie told me you were looking for a copy of Creators and Lords. It just so happens that I procured a first edition just this morning!" He flashed a toothy grin, not even bothering to hide how smug he was feeling, "Remarkable price for the quality, only one other person had bid on it!"

A muscle in Solas's jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth tightly in anger.

"If you'd like, I may be feeling gracious enough to allow you to view it when it arrives. From a distance. Through a pane of glass."

His fists tightened so hard they had a slight tremble. "Did you now," his voice was measured, even, controlled. It took quite a bit more effort than normal. "I had no idea that you had such an interest in Ancient Elvhen culture, Pavus. Trying to find something your people haven’t stolen from them already?”

Melowyn closed her book. "Now, now, my loves-" But Dorian cut her off to snark some more.

“No, I just felt that a book of that age belonged in the hands of someone who actually knew how to take care of it.”

“Well, I suppose not all of us can ruin priceless books with poorly regulated humidity,” Solas sniffed indignantly in response, “I wonder how many classics have been lost to rot in this cesspool of a bookstore.” Somewhere deep below his anger, he spared a thought for the hope that he wasn't blushing at her use of such a tender diminutive for him. Or at least, he hoped any blush he DID have be misconstrued as reddening out of anger.

“I don’t have time for this,” Dorian’s voice was sharp and focused his attention back onto the argument. “If you don’t mind, some of us have actual work to do.” In a quick motion, he snapped the book Melowyn had been reading from in front of her, eliciting another dramatic pout, and placed it on top of the pile of books he’d been carrying. He then scooped the pile up again, gave the two of them an inscrutable look, and whirled out of the room in a huff of annoyance.

They stood there in silence for a moment before Melowyn said cheerfully, “Want to get lunch?”

“Hm, yes,” Solas nodded, abruptly calm now, “There’s a deli I like nearby. It will be my treat.”

That made her beam in delight.”Well then, I’ll let you treat,” she laughed.

As she pulled her coat on and grabbed her purse, he asked, "So, you work here when you’re not dancing, then?"

"Oh, I don't work here! I just come here to read the books for free and annoy Dorian."

"Both are admirable goals!" he chuckled. She came out around the counter and took his arm and they left the shop lost in pleasant conversation, his anger momentarily forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your support and interest so far! I'm genuinely surprised by how much I've received! It's super encouraging and I love you all so much! <3
> 
> Special thanks to adjectivebear for her help and everyone else from the smut hut for being the literal best!
> 
> Also, this chapter is dedicated to adjectivebear's cat, who gave me this advice: "njmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmkioooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo" I would never have finished this chapter without it <3


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